The curse of the rich is ennui: there is a point where you have everything and anything, and then you have to be creative. You make your own fun, you make your own entertainment, or you let yourself be sucked under. It's not death you fall into, but something worse: you become complacent, you become fat and slow and disgusting, and whatever nobility was in your bloodlines before is drowned.

But you, you've got resources: you've got your grandfather's notes and your ancestor's texts; you've the strength of your sword arm and the great Doujikiriyatsuna as your blade. You've got the names of a dozen powerful youkai on a list -- they'll fall to you eventually, of course, but they'll provide you a good chase and a better fight before they fall to you. And Edwards, your good friend, he's got information for you too: books on western occult, some with powdery red-brown stains that you politely never ask about. There are things in these dusty annuls that you've never heard of before -- things your ancestors never would have dreamed even existed; even your namesake might have been stunned. What you find are possibilities, and with Ichinomiya stubbornly refusing to give up the Oni-Eater's name -- for now, only for now -- the distraction is most welcome.

On that whim you decide to go to England: to visit your good friend, you say; to get a better understanding of the foreigners who are starting to appear more and more in the streets of Japan. Your uncle glowers and looks generally disapproving, but he doesn't actually tell you no; Watanabe packs his own bags as soon as you bring up the idea; Ayame pouts that she's not allowed to come as well. You kiss her forehead and promise her a souvenir, which Watanabe will take care of for you: you've got a plan and you're going demon-hunting. Edwards laughs and calls your enthusiasm adorable; you simply point out that you've a lot to look forward to, so why shouldn't you be pleased?

"There is someone in particular I'd like you to meet, Admiral," Edwards tells him as he pours wine that is jewel-tone red. "We acquired him some years back. It was a very difficult trade, so we've had to keep him under close watch."

"Hehhh?" You perk up at that and lean forward, resting just your fingertips against the back of Edwards' wrist. "A special case, then?"

"Quite," Edwards promises. He touches his fingers to his cheek and gives you a smile you've learned to recognize, one that's hidden its fangs deep within a silk shroud. "A good match for the honored Admiral, I think."

You put your hand on Doujikiriyatsuna; you rest your thumb on the hilt and push just enough to feel the cold metal of the blade. "Interesting," you say. "Show me."

+++

The room looks empty when you walk in; Edwards smiles and shakes his head apologetically: the creature isn't terribly fond of him, for some reason, and it's better he stays out. A solemn-faced sister lays an extra line of salt across the doorway, and then walks away. You tuck your thumbs into your belt and you wait.

It comes slower than you expect: a patch of black that is darker than the shadows in the rest of the room, gathering itself slowly together in the corner, before two verticle-slit cat eyes open and there's a smile that's full of knife-sharp teeth. It bows to you, with impeccable manners and casual grace, and it's only right that you bow back -- and you get a half-second to breathe before a force slams into you hard into the wall. There's a dull deep ache that spreads across your shoulders and down your spine, and you open your eyes again and see Edwards' prized creature: it's a lovely man, tall and slim, with the same snow-white skin as a woman. His eyes are the same red as fresh blood, a color you're quite familiar with, and they reflect no light.

The creature wears a suit that is half a decade out of date, but utterly impeccable: there is not a single fold or hair out of place; it walks like a man but there's still something uniquely inhuman in posture. This is nothing like the Oni-Eater would be: this is utterly in control and poised; the manners and money of a rich man mean nothing to something like this.

You draw in the breath to speak; it smiles and lays a finger to its lips.

"Shhhhh."

+++

It is nearly a day later when you open the door and step over the threshold. There is blood in your eyes; there is blood from the shallow cuts down your chest and across your hips; there is blood that runs in a dried line down the inside of one thigh. Not all of it is even yours.

It hurts to walk, to breathe, to smile -- but you do, and Edwards is there, matching your expression with one of his own.

"Well, well, Admiral," he says. "You enjoyed yourself?"

You smile, and you tilt your head just enough to crack your neck. "You could say that," you say. You feel more awake than you have in weeks -- months -- years, perhaps; it feels as though a veil has been swept neatly away from your vision, and everything is left clearly visible for the first time in so long. The sword weighs nothing at your hip; the bruises and raw patches across your palm fade away as you grip the hilt.